


Home of the Brave

by Pokytoad



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1920s, Alfred why, Drama, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Immigration, Street fighting, woot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 16:56:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12089325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pokytoad/pseuds/Pokytoad
Summary: "Man is an evasive beast, given to cultivating strange notions about himself." - Upton SinclairLithuania's suffered silently for long enough -- even in America his people go hungry.





	Home of the Brave

**Author's Note:**

> Forewarning, this is short, stiff, and mostly dialogue. I haven't written in ages :( Takes place during Lithuania's Outsourcing series in the 1920s.

It was 3 in the morning when Lithuania quietly turned the key on the lock of the front door, treading with a well-practiced silence. He didn't see America until he gently cleared his throat to indicate his presence, and the faint glimmer of surprise that flashed in Lithuania's eyes told him enough about where he'd been.  

And perhaps it was because America had never been keen on observation in the past, or perhaps it was because Lithuania was so tired nowadays, but his evening greengrocer visits were becoming more frequent, along with the injuries he acquired from accidents along the way, and he no longer made any attempt to disguise it. 

At the beginning, when America had found ladies' facial paint in the guest bathroom, he'd made no mention of it, even though it was difficult not to poke fun. It wasn't until he caught a glimpse of Lithuania sweeping the cream over a dark weal on his cheek that he realised it was to cover the bruises.   
  
"I think the market closes at sundown during the week."  
  
Lithuania stood there, silent for only a few moments before the words slid easily off his tongue.  
  
"I got jumped."  
  
"You got jumped two weeks ago, Toris… where are you getting the groceries, Manhattan?"  
  
The pause wasn't reassuring.  
  
"You don't have to keep secrets from me. I can support you, if you need someone-"  
  
"Thank you Mr. America, but I don't need help."  
  
Lithuania gave a polite bow and walked past him, hanging his coat with a tidy brushdown. As he made his way down the hall, America bit his lip.  
  
"I know you're street fighting."  
  
Lithuania stiffened, but didn't turn around, hardly hesitated; he shook his head curtly.  
  
"Goodnight, Mr. America."  
  
Two nights later America was rewarded with a confirmation of his suspicions.  
  
The doorbell rang just as America was settling down to wait again; he'd brewed himself a strong cup of coffee this time. After falling asleep the last two evenings he was determined to keep awake, certain Lithuania had been sneaking right under his nose because every morning he woke with the throw from the chaise lounge draped over his lap.  
  
When he opened the door, the district police officer was standing there, and he was gripping Lithuania by the arm.  
  
Lithuania was dishevelled, his face bloodied and shirt torn.  
  
"Does this man belong to you?"  
  
America studied him; Toris refused to meet his gaze, remaining blank and downcast.  
  
"Yes, he's my butler."  
  
"Mr. Jones, a man like yourself should know better than to hire a... a _boat rat_ in your service."  
  
"I think Laurinaitis is a swell gentleman, not a boat rat."  
  
"I caught him participating in public fighting in the Italian quarter. He doesn't even have his legal papers."  
  
America forced down a biting remark.  
  
"I'm sure it won't happen again, officer. If you could release him, I'll be taking him back into my care."  
  
"I should take him to the Tombs. He _must_ be punished for disorderly conduct."  
  
"He'll be punished as I see fit."  
  
The officer squinted. Then he shoved his captive towards the doorway.  
  
"You had better see to it. If I find him on the streets again he'll go straight to the Tombs where he belongs."  
  
America watched him go, gently closing the front door when the motorcade vanished down the street.  
  
Lithuania was standing in the corridor, silent.  
  
He looked more like a soldier at attention than a housekeeper now that they were alone - even his eyes, usually warm and inviting, were now dull, impassive.  
  
"I don't understand what's gotten into you, Lithuania. Street fighting is illegal. Do you want more pay? A boxing club membership? Am I not treating you well enough?"  
  
"No Mr. America, you treat me very well."  
  
"I can buy you anything in the world if you ask it, just name the price." America wrung his hands, searching Lithuania's face for anything at all.  
  
"Can you pay my people proper wages? My immigrants?"  
  
"What?"  
  
Lithuania rummaged in his jacket pockets, tossing a decent sum of change and dollar bills on the corridor table.  
  
There had to have been at least $10 in his jacket alone.  
  
"I don't… I don't understand…"  
  
"Oh, Mr. America. You don't even know, do you? Have you seen what happens to immigrants in your cities?"

"Well, yes, but they aren't educated. They can't hold positions with high wages..."

"You think my people are uneducated?"

"No!" America loosened his tie, struggling to stay controlled. "If  they don't speak English they can't work in an office."

Lithuania fell into silence for a moment, running a hand through his hair and looking up at the ceiling. "I don't think you realise how important you are. Don't you see it? You're the _l_ _and of the free_. My people were willing to sell the clothes off their backs for _you,_  because you offered them security, a property to tend, an occupation to earn a living and a future for their children. They _gave up_ their language for _you_. They gave up _everything_ for you."

Then he stopped and moved over to where his day satchel was hanging on the coat rack and fished around inside it until he pulled out a faded, cloth-bound novel. 

"And it was all a lie. You can't lie to a people who have never seen hope before, Mr. America. My people are trapped here because they gave their lives away. There's nowhere for them to go. They have become _nothing_." Toris held up the book like a prize of war. "Did you know, my mothers prostitute themselves to feed their families a piece of bread everyday? My fathers become thieves and drunks if they don't die of disease in your factories?"

"Stop..." America held his reeling head. He'd never heard Toris speak so much before. His voice was already thick with emotion, almost unintelligibly accented.

"Did you know, my children have to sell papers on the streets when they should be in school, learning English for their parents?"

"Stop it, Toris."

"And yet, while we're working the most resented jobs in your entire nation, your nationalist government still wants to send us away because our population is riddled with crime and alcoholism? Do you think a sober man could work in the pickling room of a meat factory seven days a week, Mr. America? For less than 15 cents a day?" 

"That's enough!" The yell finally silenced Lithuania's tirade. America released a shaky sigh. He wasn't sure if he'd ever raised his voice like that before, but he was quite sure he never wanted to do it again.

"How do you know this isn't just propaganda? Upton Sinclair is a socialist. I would never treat your - _our_ \- people like that," he pointed at the book Lithuania was holding. Of course it was _the Jungle_. "My inspectors have investigated the factories and the bosses run clean, regulated facilities. Hasn't _your_ nation learned enough from Russia's loony ideas?"

The insult stung. Lithuania visibly flinched.

"Do you want to know why I street fight?"

"Yes. Please."

"I fight to feed my people. The money I earn goes from my pockets to the bakery, and from the bakery to the table of one of my families. Do you think I would fight because of a novelist? Everything I do is for _them_. I alone truly know the squalor they live in. They've told me about it themselves. I fight because a woman cried herself to sleep in my arms last night, exhausted from selling herself to the whorehouse. I don't fight because I read a book." 

"I know." America sighed again and leaned against the wall, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I _know_. But there's nothing I can do. I'm not in control of my government and my government isn't in control of my economy. _Laissez-faire_."

Lithuania closed his eyes and nodded slowly. "My apologies for yelling."

"I deserve it."

With a light chuckle, Lithuania shook his head. "What you deserve is a cup of hot chocolate. We're not going to sleep without it now, are we?"

"We sure aren't." 

As America situated himself in the kitchen, propped up against the counter, Lithuania rifted through the icebox for the milk.

"Toris? Can I ask a question?"

"Yes."

"Are you winning, at least?"

Lithuania turned around with a crooked smile. "I haven't lost a fight yet."

"Good. And Toris?"

"Hm?"

"I may not be the _land of the free_ , but it's your people that make me the _home of the brave_."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of notes! But to preface, Lithuania's immigration issues mostly occur in Chicago, but I'd like to think America lives in New York City. So Liet is taking care of his slim minority of immigrants that ended up there because I'm too lazy to fix that issue.
> 
> 1) In the 1920s Manhattan's only reputable aspect was its reigning title as the gang district of NYC, just in case that reference didn't make sense. 
> 
> 2) The Tombs: as far as I know, the only term ever used for the penitentiary in NYC
> 
> 3) $10 = approx. $123; 15 cents = approx. $2. in U.S. currency today so a) Liet was pretty loaded b) his people were pretty not. Granted, some male factory workers earned a whopping $1.75 an _hour_ but high paying labor jobs were high paying because it almost always ended within a month, due to infection or permanent disability from a malfunctioning machine and a hand in the wrong place at the wrong time. And with the men dying of consumption after literally being worked to death (10 hrs a day, 7 days a week) the women were left to pick up their skirts and pay the monthly rent by painting cans or sewing shirts for pennies an hour. The rent, I might add, was usually set up by realty conmen and amassed impossible interest rates. A house mortgage could go from $1200 to $12,000 in less than a year because we Americans know how to exploit foreigners. 
> 
> 4) _The Jungle_. Read it. It isn't about meat. It's about Lithuanian immigrants' struggle to survive in industrialist Chicago during the early 1920s. It's also, true to claim, brazenly socialist. I honestly don't know how Upton Sinclair didn't end up in jail after publishing that book. But his study of Lithuanian immigrants was very thorough (he's been commended by several LTU journals for his cultural accuracy) and his descriptions of slums poverty were true. And on top of poverty, scams, and alcoholism, immigrants from nearly all nations (except the U.K.) but _especially_ nonwhites, Irish and Eastern Europeans had xenophobic nationalists to deal with. That's right. Even _white Europeans_ have been persecuted by the KKK.
> 
> Lithuania, above all else, is wholly devoted to his people, and America is pretty new to being the boss so he probably wants to be the Best™. Even though Liet clearly had a breezy time with Al as his employer, this conversation was bound to turn up between them.


End file.
